Always an angel
The sky was falling apart. Peter watched as it unfurled above him, horrifying and out of his reach, out of his control. The colors mixed together, the patterns of the stars were unidentifiable, muddled. It was a beautiful abstract of the ending of the world. It was a deep rooted feeling, the terror, as he heard the whispers of people he wasn’t sure he knew. Grabbing his torso, his collarbone and neck, whispers of touch digging into him and pulling him down. A hug that he hadn’t expected on a battlefield. The press of a forehead against his own. Being wrapped up in a hug, his cheek pressed against stomach, hiding his face.
He was standing—no he was sitting—no he was on his back, on the ground. Concrete was beneath him. He was sinking through it, though, wasn’t he? The voices were more urgent. You promise? some of them said. I just need to catch my breath, whispered others. I love you, he heard, above all of it, wait, and tell me when you see me again.
Through it all, from somewhere above him, he saw Stephen Strange, his stern expression broken by the line of his brow, looking upon him with a sense of pity. Peter didn’t like it. He tried to open his mouth, to say something, to lift himself from the quicksand the pavement had turned into beneath him, but all he did was lay there, still, feeling like he wanted to cry.
“Spider-Man,” He sounded far away, or muffled, like he was talking to him over the phone, or from underwater. The sorcerer crouched closer, a genuine sort of regret seeping into his expression. “ he world you’ve known is gone now. I sent you away. I…sensed it all too late. But you,” Stephen paused, as if trying to find something more to say, something profound that would somehow make it better. He struggled for a long time, it seemed, and Peter knew the feeling. “You were the only one who could slip between it. I knew it, during those fleeting moments where we fought, side-by-side. I don’t even know your name, kid, but you fit through. I made sure you would make it out. I made sure you would survive.”
His cape billowed around him. The sky continued to crumble into stardust. Peter wanted to ask why. Why me? Why now? Why them?
“I couldn’t stop it,” He told him, grim, and Peter realized that his eyes were shining, drowning behind tears. “But I could protect you. You’re a hero. You’re a damn good one. It…it felt important that you, at least, could make it,”
He was sinking, quicker now, and the voices around him, once whispers, built and grew until they pressed against his eardrums. They blended perfectly with his heartbeat, pounding in all the same ways. Peter tried again, desperately, exhaling sharply and trying to force his lips to move, to breathe into existence something, anything to say.
“Goodbye,” Dr. Strange said, leaning forward, pressing his palm against Peter’s heart. “I’m sorry.” He pushed down, and the ground swallowed him whole.
He jolted awake. It was a tiny thing, the motion of returning to his body, his muscles jerking against the sheets. It wasn’t dramatic; he didn’t bolt upright, or fight his way back to himself. He was asleep one moment, and the next he wasn’t. He sort of felt like he should be screaming, or sobbing, or feeling something more, something deeper. He wasn’t sure he could scream, even if he wanted to. He still felt so heavy.
He rolled over, his face stuck to his pillow with what seemed to be a line of drool. His mouth felt gross and dry. He hadn’t slept that soundly in months. There was a confusing moment where he gained consciousness, fully, blinking the sleep from his eyes and staring at the top bunk above him. He forgot that he’d taped stickers in the wire framing. He forgot that his mattress had been so squeaky, but comfortable in all the right places. He forgot what it had felt like to be home. He tried to fall into it, letting his heart pound and his dream dull his vision around the edges. If he didn’t let himself shake all of the sleep away, maybe he wouldn’t forget all of its contents. He didn’t want to forget.
He heard the softest chime from a phone, like a bell, something that usually sounded at an online game during an achievement. It was familiar, and Peter rubbed at his eyes, sitting up as the bed groaned around the action. Was someone playing Candy Crush?
Ned’s face appeared from above him, his eyes wide and his hair mussed to one side of his head. It took Peter a moment to remember the night before, the conversations that had taken place, the exhaustion that felt a little lighter now that he’d actually slept. He forgot Ned had stayed with him until he’d drifted off.
His friend looked so guilty. “Oh my god, I didn’t wake you up did I?”
“Uh,” He pressed a hand to his face, warm from the covers, and he knew the pillowcase had probably left creases on his skin. He felt sweaty, like he had slept under one too many layers of the covers, and it clung to him. “No, it wasn’t you,” Ned still frowned at him, a complicated type of searching in his expression. He was trying to read Peter, and he was honestly too drowsy to care.
“How’d you sleep?” He asked, tentatively, and began to slide his way to the ground floor.
Peter watched him fumble down the ladder, exhaling deep as he sat at the end of the bed, just next to his feet. “Good,” It was good, in a way. He wasn’t sure that it was a nightmare, or a dream, or some beyond life and universe vision. It was something he was supposed to see, he knew. That made it good, didn’t it? He tugged at the end of his shirt sleeve. “Do you think that makes me a bad person? That I slept well even after…” His throat felt tight. “After finding out…everything.”
Ned’s face pinched, in a way he knew meant he was trying to hold back tears. “I don’t think you’re a bad person for sleeping, Peter,” He told him, confident but gentle, reaching forward and putting a hand on his ankle. “I’m really glad you got some rest,”
He nodded, feeling like he should fight it more, but already enduring the slow build of guilt—a dark, empty pit in his stomach—that pinched at his ribs and spread a numbness through his veins. “Thank you for staying with me,” He managed, even when everything felt like too much. “Thank you for…caring.”
“Don’t thank me for that,” Ned scolded him, blinking quickly. Peter felt his chest seize when he realized the other boy was crying. He felt like crying, too, a familiar pressuring pulsing behind his eyelids. No tears fell. He felt so awful. “God, Peter, I’m so fucking sorry.”
He lurched forward, the mattress squeaking as their weight shifted, and he subconsciously leaned forward, meeting Ned’s hug in the middle, trying so hard not to choke. It was still so hard to breathe. He sort of wished he was still asleep; he didn’t feel anything when he was unconscious.
“It’s not your fault,” Peter mumbled.
“That doesn’t mean it doesn’t suck,” Ned said, his arms holding him so tightly, his body trembling as he inhaled. “And it doesn’t mean I can’t be sorry. Because I love you, and none of this should be happening to you.”
Peter gripped the fabric of Ned’s shirt in his hands, burying his face in his shoulder and letting the ball of tight, hot something unfurl, just a little, from his lungs.
He showered and dressed in clothes that used to be baggy on him, finding it almost nostalgic sorting through shirts and pants he forgot he’d owned. He tried to drown out the soft drone of conversation in the other room, hearing so vividly the lull of his Aunt, his mentor, and the sorcerer in deep discussion. He tried not to eavesdrop, letting the meaning of each word slide over him, irrelevant. It was easy, the dissociation; to place himself removed from the world outside of the bathroom, then his bedroom. He tried not to think about everything that had happened; everything he’d learned in the brief moment between the morning and last night. He sort of still felt like he was asleep, and he wondered if the fog would ever clear from his brain.
He needed to show his face eventually, before someone came searching for him, so he cracked his back, stretched out his legs, and then marched towards the living room. Well, march was a very bold choice of word for the way he stumbled and tip-toed through the hallway, torn between remaining absolutely silent and announcing his presence before he even appeared.
Ned was sitting anxiously at the corner of the couch, looking at the finished lego death star still laying on the coffee table, chewing on the inside of his cheek. Aunt May was puttering in the kitchen, if the clinking of silverware and cereal boxes was any indication. Mr. Stark sat stoically at the kitchen table, his back and face turned away, his head in his hands. Stephen Strange, former Sorcerer Supreme, was nowhere to be seen.
Peter paused in the threshold between corridor and open space, branching between the kitchen and the living room and the entryway. He wondered if he was hesitating, or if his feet had stuck themselves to the hardwood. It wouldn’t be the first time.
“Peter!” Ned called, then seemed to struggle with anything to say afterwards. It caught the attention of both of his guardians, swiveling to face him, to stare with a sense of relief and sadness.
He let his eyes trail between them all, slowly, moving his tongue along the inside of his teeth as he tried to make his mouth less dry. He must’ve been making an ugly expression, he knew, standing still and floating his gaze around like a frightened animal. He must’ve been looking as empty as he felt when his Aunt reached him, tucking a strand of barely dried hair behind his ear and smiling with such soft distress he barely even registered that she was worrying.
“Good morning,” He found himself saying, feeling clumsy against his lips. May wrapped his shoulders against her, a quick, suffocating hug, and he realized he had no idea what time it was. “Or…good…afternoon?”
“Not quite,” His mentor grinned, wry and breathless, rising from his chair in a subtle greeting, unsure of whether to approach him or let him take the few steps forward. “It’s almost noon,”
“11:48,” Ned offered, also on his feet, somehow more nervous now that his legs were under him. “I, uh, was going to let you sleep just past ten-thirty, but, y’know...”
“Oh,” He nodded, and his Aunt pulled away long enough to search his face. “Um. Thanks,” He added, even though he wasn’t sure why.
It was an awkward sort of dance they did around each other, everyone hovering over him like he was physically wounded, or like he was about to randomly collapse and start punching the ground. He figured he hadn’t exactly set the best example the night before, but it was overwhelming, and he really just wanted to crawl back in bed and pretend like none of it had ever happened. It was easier trying to ignore the shattering, all-consuming grief if he didn’t have to look his loved ones in the face, supporting him and glancing at him with such an aching sympathy.
He sat at the table, allowed his Aunt to pour him a bowl of cereal, and mechanically and methodically lifted his spoon to his mouth. It tasted like nothing. It almost made him gag. His vision was unfocused and he only heard the chatter around the table by his proximity. Even the brief dissociation was no consolation, protecting him momentarily from the brutality of overthinking, but also drawing him further and further away from the table.
“Yeah, the mascot is a Beaver? I’m not sure why, but school spirit is still a thing even when we’re mostly nerds,” Ned was saying, his voice light, almost intentionally so.
“Engineers,” Tony slapped his arm, amiably. “We have to compare foam fingers sometime.”
“I’ll…have to buy a foam finger,” Ned returned, politely.
“We could go down one of these days,” May offered, taking her place at Peter’s side, patting his knee as she lowered into her seat, and he tried to pretend like chewing and swallowing wasn’t taking everything out of him. “We could get Peter a shirt,”
“Yeah!” Ned brightened, turning towards him and setting his own spoon down on the table. “My Lola has one, and I offered to get one for May, so we could all be matching!”
Tony hummed. “He still has my old sweatshirt,” He mused, smiling over at Peter kindly. “Wonder if it still fits. What do you think, kid? Want a brand new one?”
They were all looking at him expectantly. He knew they were. He opened his mouth, tried to find some way to agree, for something to contribute, but he just floundered. He remembered getting his rejection letter, opening it alongside his friends. He remembered how angry he felt, how guilt clawed his chest to ribbons, exposed his worst fears: that he was only dragging them down, that knowing him was a destructive, deadly role that ended in blood and dust and rubble. It hadn’t even mattered, when he’d made them forget and let the world turn without his influence. It hadn't even mattered that he’d sacrificed his name, his identity, his very being to let his friends exist without opposition. They had gone to MIT. He had let them, a promise entirely abandoned. Now, they were gone forever.
Did any of it matter? Was even living in a world, breathing the air and slipping through the cracks of recognition still a damning sentence? Was that his fault, too?
His eyes welled up, his jaw snapped shut, and he tried to fight back the overpowering, burning sensation of bile rising in his throat. Everyone froze, and he tried to control his breathing, stuttering on a sniffle and bowing his head.
“I’m sorry,” He garbled, feeling disoriented as he wiped his cheek against his shirt. “I don’t know why I’m crying,”
“Oh, Peter,” May said, her voice thick and soft, reaching out and pulling him towards her. “It’s alright,”
He felt a strange surge of defensiveness, an unbearable desire to speak, to explain, to somehow undermine the hot tears spilling over. “I mean, I know why, but I’ve just cried so much. I don’t want to keep crying. I don’t need to cry, but I do, and I…I don’t want to.”
“Crying is a good outlet of your emotions,” Tony explained, carefully, his voice tight and overly factual. “With all of the overwhelming information you’ve been given…it’s only natural that you would cry,”
“Let it out, man,” Ned added, an obvious sign of support, his own eyes red and watery.
He let May wrap him into her arms again, tucking his face into her neck. “I’m sorry,” He sobbed. “I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to…ruin breakfast,” He hid himself a little further, feeling the hot flush of shame on the back of his neck.
“You aren’t ruining anything,” His aunt kissed the top of his head, and he felt his shoulders shake. “I’m so grateful that you’re here with us, that you’re eating with us, and if that means I have to deal with a little tears and snot? I was always the one to pick you up when you scraped your knees, wasn’t I?”
Peter pulled back, pressed his hands to his face, trying desperately, still, to hide within the minuscule solace between his fingertips. He hated how he knew that there would be no judgment, no fear or distain. He was so loved by these people, and it hurt him so much because it kept himself from the blame. How could he hate himself when such devoted affection was given to him readily? How could he grieve the world he left behind when this one offered him so much comfort?
How selfish, how cruel must he be for part of him to praise the forces that brought him here, spilling over gratitude and ready acceptance almost immediately after realizing there was nowhere else for him to be. He lost obligation to his suffering, but only through the devastation that snuffed out an entire universe. What was wrong with him? What wasn’t wrong with him?
“I don’t think an Iron Man bandaid is going to fix this,” He whispered, horrified at how quiet his voice ended up being. Any sense of levity was too far for him to grasp, it seemed.
“Don’t underestimate me now,” May returned, quickly, and he could hear the thickness hidden in the words. She was trying not to cry. Ned had lost the battle, it seemed, and was once again weeping from across the table. “God, my baby,” She dragged her chair, pressing their knees together and rubbing her hands up and down his arms. All he could do was tremble, helpless to it. “I can’t imagine what’s going on inside your head. What you’re dealing with. How alone you must feel,”
“Do…” He wet his lips, struggling to find the words. “Do you think it hurt? When…do you think everyone was in pain?” He swallowed, trying a few times to clear his airways properly. “Do you think they were scared?”
He blinked, hard, but it did nothing to rid the blurry quality to everything. The world was spinning, just underneath his feet, and he couldn’t help but feel like none of this was real. He grabbed for his Aunt, her hand readily awaiting his, and Ned lurched from his seat, grabbing his palm as soon as it was offered towards him. Tony was slower, more hesitant, but he stood and hugged Peter around the shoulders, tight. He tried to breathe. It was a little bit easier, with his family there to ground him.
“We’ve got you, Pete,” His mentor muttered, as if reading his mind, and he slumped entirely, all of the strength leaving him in a huge, heaving wave. “We’re here.”
He closed his eyes, and shuddered, and they held on. They held on, and he felt the world spin beneath his feet, and he felt a little more present. He hated it.